


The Parting of Hero and Leander

by Equinox2324



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Q being worried even though he pretends not to be worried, Q's POV, Worried Q, admission of feelings, injured Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equinox2324/pseuds/Equinox2324
Summary: Bond and Q have managed to turn their relationship of mutual annoyance to one of friendship. They also sleep together sometimes.When Bond is called away to an incredibly dangerous, high-risk mission, Q is absolutely not worried in the least because he and Bond aren't actually together. Honestly. Especially not when he finds out that Bond has been critically injured in the middle of the mission.Cut to Q being in distress about his boyfriend who is absolutely not his boyfriend and some pining.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 18
Kudos: 172
Collections: MI6 Cafe MiniBang





	The Parting of Hero and Leander

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the MI6 Cafe MiniBang under the prompt "brief"  
> A huge thank you to my lovely artist partner Ruggsie for her wonderful art piece to go along with this story and for being so patient with my incredibly inconsistent timings (as well as the Cafe Mods for being so great).  
> Here's a link to Ruggsie’s tumblr with all her fabulous art! https://becausesubmissionsarebroke.tumblr.com/

They’d decided to meet at the National Gallery, only this time it wasn’t in front of the infamous Turner painting of which Q was mocked by a James Bond some eight odd years ago. Strangely enough, they were stood in the same room as their first meeting, only now greeted by a different Turner painting, though just as melancholy as the last. It hung among several others, but somehow it stood out, with colors of blue and white and dark brown, light orange awash in the corner; and, in the center, a figure mourning the loss of her lover, drowning in the sea in front of her. How very fitting.

"Russia?"

Befitting the reminiscence of their first meeting, Bond and Q stood next to each other, facing the painting. Meetings of this sort called for little eye contact, conversation kept to a minimum with details revolving only around the requirements of the mission. A mission that Q was not briefed on. Not even notified about until this very moment. He'd found it odd when he received a text from Bond asking him to meet at the Gallery. Q was not at MI6 today. Instead, he was taking one of his required 'off days' issued to him by Mallory after several stints of not leaving his desk for days on end. Bond was not over at his flat today, and Q was fine with that. He was still surprised at the text. It was cryptic and Q hated that.

Bond didn't elaborate when Q texted back asking for an explanation. All Q got was a short _'Private matter. Need to speak to you.'_

It wasn't strange for Bond to be so vague, so Q accepted that he wasn't getting much more out of him and headed down to the National Gallery in the cold London chill of a Wednesday morning.

Somehow, though he feels like he should be used to it, Q is still surprised at the outcome of this meeting.

Bond breathes a small sigh next to him, continuing to face the painting.

"Yes. Moscow," Bond answers in response to Q's earlier question. It wasn't really a question, though. It was a confirmation, just to make sure he'd understood Bond correctly when he was told the details of the agents next mission.

Q does not move, but his eyes continue to search the painting. The colors are light, but rich. There's a glow to the moon amongst the clouds and the sun's orange hue was peeking out from behind the caves.

"How long?" Q asked with an attempt of the casual questioning a quartermaster asked his agent when he was called to mission. His words came out steady, and it would feel like a success if he wasn't one hundred percent certain that Bond could still hear the nonexistent tremor in his voice.

"Not long." he said with a similar attempt at casualness.

"That's not an answer."

Neither Q nor Bond had looked away from the painting throughout their conversation, but from the corner of his eye, Q could see Bond turn his head the tiniest amount to look at him, though his body remained still. "The mission will be brief, Q."

Q wanted to look at him, but somehow it felt easier to stare at the painting. As if he was having a conversation with the figure in the center, holding torches for her drowning lover. "Forgive my incredulity 007, but somehow your vague notion of brevity is not exactly comforting when faced with the knowledge that one of my agents will be undercover with one of the most dangerous gangs on this planet, of which no one apart of would hesitate to put a bullet in your head if you so much as breathed incorrectly."

Q tried to keep his voice steady, but the composure was starting to crack. Perhaps unconsciously, he reverted to addressing Bond by his MI6 moniker, referring to him as an agent. At this point he could admit that they were far past that but thinking of Bond in any other context at this moment made his chest feel tight. It was only some days ago that they lay in bed together, in Bond's flat no less, basking in the rare warmth this time of London gave them. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Though it was incorrect to call those rarities, it wasn't something they did often. Q is unsure how long ago this whole "thing" between them even started. He remembers Bond was the one to initiate it and since then they've been going on like this. Together, sometimes, in usually Q's flat as not only did it not have the cold, barren atmosphere that Bond's flat seemed to maintain but it was also closer to MI6.

It happened most often when they were at their most tired, most stressed, coming off a shit mission, backlogged in paperwork, no sleep in the laggard passing days. Bond usually came down to Q branch when it was empty. The routine was usually the same. Bond would request for Q to join him for a three-a.m. meal because

_The last thing I've seen you consume in the past 14 hours is a cup of tea and half a biscuit Q, you must eat some point._

Q would give in, but not before several minutes of insisting that he was fine, and _the gun isn't going to create itself 007._

They'd take Bond's car to some take-out shop that was open at seemingly any hour of the day, ending up at Q's flat, wherein Bond would normally stay the night. They figured it was the easiest option. Bond would sleep on the couch. Q in his bed. It was like that. Until it wasn't.

Until Bond complained that the couch was causing him shoulder pain.

Q still likes to convince himself that it was for the betterment and health of his agent that he offered Bond a place in his bed that night. He thinks that thought should have gone out the window the second he found himself tangled in Bond's arms that night, waking up the next morning to blue and purple bites along the soft white skin of his neck and collarbones.

Since then, Bond would come down to Q branch after missions, needing only to lean against the door frame in silence, the only sound coming from Q tinkering with the screws of this latest device until he noticed Bond's presence. The quick meal part of their routine was gone, but they still ended up at Q's flat. Still awoke together to morning sun through the window. Still dressed in silence. Still went into the MI6 building separately, and still ignored each other throughout most of the day. It was an arrangement they were both happy with.

Nothing changed in their professional lives. If Q maybe got a little more harried during one of Bond's chases throughout a bombed building, or under the knife of some terrorist in the desert, or in the bed of a beautiful and dangerous blonde heiress, then that didn't mean anything. He was doing his job, keeping his agents safe, like he did for all the 00's. No one had to know about the pressure he felt in his chest when a too-fast heartbeat nearly drowned out all thoughts of professionalism during Bond's millionth brush with death. It didn't mean anything.

But standing here, now, somehow it felt like it did.

He heard Bond sigh. Q had yet to look at him since he'd arrived.

That sigh felt resigned, like Bond knew he wasn't going to be able to convince Q this wasn't an incredibly dangerous mission. It wasn't the first. Q wasn't even sure this was his most dangerous assignment, but something just felt different. Perhaps a stronger person could say it to themselves outright.

_You wouldn't be acting like this four months ago._

"Are you going to answer my question?" Q asked. His voice was still steady, but he could hear his own breathing.

Bond lowered his head and turned ever so slightly to face Q, keeping his body poised straight. "The dossier said three months. Could end up being shorter or longer. All depends on how well the cover works."

By that sentence, Q could tell that Bond phrased it in that way specifically for Q. The assurance that he would come back. Though Q knew that the strength of the cover worked not only determine the mission length, but also whether Bond returned to England intact, or in a casket. The thought made him shiver, but he tried to keep his body still.

Q wanted to hate the way Bond said it. He wasn't a child, he was a trained MI6 employee, the head of a department. He knew that all of Bond's missions had the possibility that he wouldn't come back. That's why he did everything he could to make sure that Bond _would_ come back, and he did a damn good job, as proven by the fact that that Bond was standing right next to him.

Q wanted to hate it, but what he hated most was his own brain for appreciating that Bond said it that way.

"When do you leave?" Q thought he knew the answer to that question, but something in him wanted to ask anyway.

"Tonight" Bond said. Q was almost disappointed that he was right. "I'll go into MI6 before leaving to get the supplies. R has everything set up."

Q nodded. He didn't think he'd taken his eyes off the painting since they began this conversation. The colors were starting to mix together, and the figures blurred after staring at them for so long.

Maybe they should talk more about this, but the setting wasn't right. Q doesn't know what he would even say to Bond if they were somewhere else. In his flat. In Bond's flat. Would it make a difference if Bond told him in one of those places? What else could he say?

It didn't make him feel better, and that was the most frustrating thing of all. Even if Q had the chance to say something else, he wouldn't.

Q took in a short, clipped breath, finally turning his face to look at Bond with an air of casualness that he so desperately wished was there. The colors of the painting were still swimming in the corners of his eyes and it felt like his brain was trying to shut out whatever was going on around him, but he could still see Bond turning to look at him fully too. He looked good, even with the somewhat guilty expression that Q didn't think he'd ever seen before on Bond's face.

"Q, I know this may seem sudden but-"

"No need to explain yourself 007," Q cut in quickly before Bond could continue. Going any deeper into this conversation was an option that Q desperately wanted to avoid. He may not have actively noticed that he was exclusively using the agent's MI6 title, but the pressure in his chest certainly felt much better about it than ‘Bond’, or God forbid, ‘James.’ This was work, and there is no need for emotional talks in work, Q reminded himself.

Bond's mouth thinned into a line. His eyes hardened in that way which said he knew there was no point in trying to continue this conversation. It was a losing game. In Bond's silence, Q felt the reflexive need to say something, but he didn't have anything to say, couldn't think of anything when Bond was staring at him with that somewhat guilty expression. Q couldn't decide if that look made him feel validated or incredibly sad.

The air was too tense and the scuffle of tourists in the background hovering over the paintings around them made things feel quieter in this little bubble he was trapped in with James Bond. Q was never particularly great at reading people, but he could feel Bond's want to reach out for him.

It doesn't matter anyhow. Bond stares back at him, just as lost.

Q adjusted his bag over his shoulder. His jacket made it slip constantly, not helped by the London rain. He held a tighter grip on the strap on the bag.

"I will see you when you return. I’m sure M will notify me with any additional information."

Q wanted so badly to bolt out of this gallery as quickly as he could, if only to avoid those blue eyes that looked at him without question, but with understanding. Somehow, that made it so much worse.

"No 'good luck'?" Bond asked.

Without meaning to, Q's eyes subtly drifted to the side, locking onto the painting again. Oranges and browns and blues. The perfect colors for a woman in mourning. His eyes quickly shifted back to Bond. "Good luck, 007."

Q didn't turn back to see Bond's expression as he walked out.

* 

Three months don't pass so quickly in general, but Q didn't plan on the next four weeks being so excruciatingly slow. Which somehow didn't make any sense given that he was still knee deep in work for all the other agents, plus paper work for post-missions, plus all his meetings with M, plus the continued on-the-job training he still did, a month shouldn't feel so much like a century. Yet, somehow Q could feel the heaviness of having to wake up every day and go into work feeling like he was constantly wading through mud. His guilt was certainly unhelpful.

After he'd left the gallery the day Bond got sent to Russia, there was a voice in his head demanding he run back and apologize.

Bond had to leave. This was his job and Q knew that. Of course he knew that. He knew he didn't have the right to feel upset at an agent doing their work, but somewhere in the last few months, Q's rational when it came to his emotions flew completely out the window, and here he was. Worrying. Constantly.

Bond had sent him one last text just before he left.

_Will keep in touch if possible. I'll miss you. Don't forget to eat._

Q couldn't help but snort at the message and try as hard as he could to not focus on the middle part of it. He'd failed and replied,

_I'll keep updated on everything. Stay safe. No promises._

The first few days were the worst. Q asked M to keep him updated even though there wasn't technically a reason for it. Thankfully, M's view of him as an overly diligent worker gave him cover enough as to why he was constantly wondering how the mission was going. Obviously he was. This was one of his agents in a highly dangerous gang of men that were infamous in their lackadaisical murders of just about anyone who was remotely seen as a threat. Even M was a touch more concerned than normal, though he did hide it quite well.

The Orekhovskaya gang working all over Russia were harboring a flash-drive holding encrypted information on future targets. Only one leaked to the public several weeks ago as a result of a particularly untrained or reckless member. Q assumed that member has been long disposed of. The leak held the name of an infamous political official in St. Petersburg, including his wife and the men who worked for him.

Apparently, the rescue mission sent for them after the leak was successful, but just barely so. The gang relocated no so long after, disappearing off the trail of the police. It took weeks, but they appeared back on the radar with a messy drug deal in Moscow. Needing all the help possible, the Police of Russia contacted several foreign intelligence services to help find way to finally getting the flash-drive. M seemed to think Bond was the one for the job and, to the frustration of Q’s own desires, he couldn’t say he was surprised.

*

It’s been six weeks since Bond’s been gone, and Q is going just a touch crazy. No matter how much he bothers M or Moneypenny about Bond’s whereabouts, it doesn’t make up for not having him here. It doesn’t make up for not having Bond bother him every 10 minutes when he’s trying to get work done or bringing him hot tea because he knew Q got distracted with something or another and his Earl Grey inevitably went cold. It certainly didn’t make up for waking up in an empty flat to gloomy rain from the grey clouds. The sun had been showing up less and less, and it felt too fitting.

They weren’t allowed any interaction for these three months. M felt it best to keep Bond as into the work as possible and apparently other interactions would detract from that, even with his Quartermaster. The only communication allowed was through M and for any emergency that was under Q’s department to solve. So far, Q hadn’t received any distress calls or immediate help signals, which was a good thing. Perhaps the deep inner most part of him that held all his selfishness would disagree on that fact, but he chooses to ignore that part as much as possible.

Q was in his office today, working on prototypes for a custom watch. A distress signal is harder to spot in a watch than a radio. If only building them wasn’t so tedious. Q’s glasses sat on the corner of his desk along with his third cup of tea and a biscuit with two bites in it. When working with something as small and intricate as a watch, Q removes his glasses since his nearsightedness isn’t a problem when the thing he’s working on is half a millimeter away from his face.

The staff is few today. The last week miraculously reigned in a limited number of broken guns and weapon modifications. At least that’s one thing he can say has improved since Bond’s absence.

If there isn’t much in the way of heavy machinery, the staff sometimes work on home operated computers. As far as Q could tell, there were maybe four people working outside his office. R was definitely somewhere in the building doing something important, though what that is, no one knows.

Q was in the middle of adjusting some infinitesimally small bolts in the watch when a knock sounded on the door. He looked up from his work, setting down the screwdriver and putting his glasses back on.

“Come in,” Q said.

Moneypenny opened the door with what was her “trying to keep blank” facial expression. Q had only seen it when she was about to deliver him some sort of bad news but didn’t want to make it obvious that it was bad news.

“Q,” Moneypenny said in greeting, her voice casual.

Q stared at her for a second, unsure if he should continue this cordial approach she’s taking where she doesn’t start with the inevitably bad news or explain that he’s known her too long to be fooled by it.

“If this M’s attempt to tell me once again that the L131A1 pistol isn’t stable enough and requires even further modifications than the three I’ve already done, then this seems like overkill to send you all the way down here to do so.” Q stated, standing from his chair and putting the watch inside his desk drawer.

Moneypenny gave a small smile at that, but it was lacking something. She walked inside his office, closing the door behind her.

“What do you take me for? A secretary?” she asked with mocking anger, her voice still a degree away from being even. She was a good faker, but Q was a good spotter. He leaned back against his desk, affixing her with a look.

“You have too much weapons training to be a secretary,” Q gave his own small smile, but it was a smile of concern. Q didn’t know what this visit was for, but the voice in his head was doing quite the good job at jumping to the conclusion he was so desperate to be far away from. “What is it, Moneypenny?”

Q was glad she didn’t try to deny the implication of his question. He knew something was wrong, and that something could be a minor detail with a weapon, could be a possible threat, could be an agent stuck somewhere, or it could be the worst fears his brain could come up with involving one special agent come to life.

Moneypenny’s smile faded, and he felt the knot in his chest tighten at her words.

“M received a call a few minutes ago from the officials in charge of the Moscow mission,” she paused to look straight at Q, her voice going the slightest bit more quiet when she continued “007 was injured at a shootout at one of the hideaways the gang uses for stock. Shot in the upper chest. The bullet narrowly missed his lungs but caused significant damage to the blood vessels. He’s been rushed to emergency intensive care and is getting operated on at this moment.”

_No._

For a moment, all he could do was stare back at Moneypenny. The only reaction that was apparent from the outside was Q’s grip on the table behind him, hands tightening as his brain tried to process the words he was told.

His brain had always been like a computer, but even computers crash, freezing under the overload of information, unable to continue processing.

A rush of cold was overtaking his body. It started in his chest, Q feeling like he was hollow except for the bitter cold fear that ran through him. And there wasn’t another word for it. It was fear. It was fear that he felt ever since the day in the National Gallery when Bond told him he was leaving for Moscow. The tiny knot in his chest as Bond’s words, growing over the time he was gone. That knot was now thick and tangled, weaving through his chest, blocking his airways.

At this moment, all Q could think of was a portrait of a priestess, mourning her lost lover where the tides of dark ocean continuously hit the rocks.

Q’s brain only caught up with the fact that he hadn’t spoken when Moneypenny took a tentative step forward towards him. She was reaching out her arm as if to place against Q’s own in comfort, but she never made it. Q pushed forward away from the desk, moving hastily to the opposite side of his office. He did not need her attempt at pity or comfort. He was fine. Though as hard as he tried to feign calmness, he could tell that Moneypenny didn’t buy it judging by her continued concerned expression.

Q took in a breath, straightening his shoulders as he addressed Moneypenny.

“How long will the operation take?” he asked.

Moneypenny shifted a bit, noticing his tone with the question. It was professional, as he would address any critical injury with any other agent. There’d be no use or need for him to start acting like a soldier’s wife, breaking down and giving in to the fear that maybe all his midnight paranoia's had come true.

“They’re unsure,” Money replied, her own tone purposefully not taking up his own strict one “the operators are trying to keep him stable.”

Q didn’t ignore the way she phrased that.

“Trying to?” he pushed out the words, the air in his chest never felt as limited as it did now, the knot tightening further. Even so, he kept his voice steady. The stoic expression on his face helped to make it seem as though he was fine, even though that was simply the shock that still hadn’t fully set in.

Moneypenny struck him an exasperated look, walking forward towards him once again, this time with no attempt at a comforting touch.

“Yes Q, trying to. As in, he took a critical hit and it’s going to take who knows how long to figure out when he may wake up again. Bond is in danger, and I may not know exactly what’s going on between the two of you, but I have enough of a mind to know that you care about him and he cares about you. So, stop with this trying to pretend that this is just business when it obviously isn’t.”

She took in a short breath after her angry words were spouted at Q, straightening her back (ever the professional). She looked at him, attempting to gauge what his next move would be.

Her agitated expression remained, but as Q continued to fix her with the same blank expression, her eyebrows slowly unfurrow, the angry line of her frown softening, and a look appeared in her eyes.

It was a look of recognition and Q hated it because it meant that she’d seen his same expression reflected on another human at some point. Perhaps the wife of an agent being told her husband wouldn’t be returning from mission or a mother finding out her child was missing. She recognized Q’s response for what it was: zero lack of knowledge on what to do, but terrified, nonetheless. 

Where does one go from here? He can’t sit here in paranoia, wondering if at any moment Bond’s heart will stop, the damage to his blood vessels too vast, too much blood, too much pain. He can’t. All Q can do it wait. Wait like he always does. It doesn’t mean that he won’t be thinking about it or replaying every minuscule moment he and Bond shared. What else is he to do?

His hands feel weak and the knot refuses to loosen.

Q registers Moneypenny’s sigh and glances at her. Her expression isn’t pity, but more like the concern she was showing earlier. Neither Q nor Bond had told her anything about their relationship before. Actually, they didn’t tell anyone because they themselves didn’t know what their relationship was.

They weren’t dating, but the deeper need both felt to be near each other, to talk to each other ran wide. They were friends, but there was something else there too, even if neither of them wanted to look deep enough to see it. What they had was fine. There was no need to mess with it.

Of course, that was then, and this is now. Now Q is nearly shaking with the knowledge that he may never see Bond again. He’d had that thought before, but it wasn’t nearly the same. Now it was a reality, now it was for real, and it’s only now that he recognizes Bond as someone he can’t afford to lose.

It wouldn’t hurt. It would _break him_ , this time for good. It would tear him apart. It would take whatever measly beating thing was sitting in his chest and burn it until there was nothing left of Q. He couldn’t take that. He couldn’t.

“Go home Q,” Moneypenny said, her voice determined.

Q looked at her.

“I can’t” he replied, his voice now as melancholic as he felt. There was no use in lying anymore, neither to himself nor Moneypenny.

Moneypenny fixed him with another hard look. “Why not?”

Q slowly moved to walk back to his desk. He dropped into his chair, turning until he could rest his elbows on top of the wood. His hands connected and he pressed his entwined fingers against his lips as if in prayer. He wasn’t praying, but that didn’t stop a voice in the back of his head reaching out to some deity to plead for the man he wouldn’t let die. Q sat back into chair and turned his head to look at Moneypenny, his still entwined hands dropping onto the desk. “Because then I’ll have nothing to concentrate on,” Q stated. “I should stay here. The watch is going to take additional time to perfect. It would be more useful for me to keep working on it.”

He didn’t want to keep working on the watch.

Apparently, Moneypenny already knew that. Bond did always tell him that for the head of an entire branch, he can be a terrible liar.

Moneypenny walked over to his desk, leaning her hip against the side and facing Q head on. “You will absolutely not, and don’t you even dare try and bring up that you have higher clearance than me. Even M would agree that this is not the time for you to keep working yourself sick. You should go home, and if you continue to defy my orders, I’ll notify M and he’ll send for another agent to escort you out.”

Q had full faith that should he refuse, that is absolutely something she would do.

Accepting that he would be absolutely useless were he to stay right now, Q gave a sigh and reached under his desk to grab his messenger bag. He stood and grabbed his laptop, packing it inside his bag. As he slung the bag over his shoulder, he turned back to face Moneypenny. She at least looked relieved that he’d followed her order without a fuss.

“Just know that if I weren’t certain I might accidentally burn some part of my body should I continue work, I would continue to defy your orders,” Q added, grabbing his phone off the desk.

Moneypenny gave a small smile at that. “Of that I have no doubt.” She walked over to the door and unlocked it, opening it as a clear sign for Q to get the hell out of here.

As Q moved to exit, she put her hand onto his shoulder, fixing him with that same concerned look. Q appreciated it as much as he disliked it.

“He’s going to make it,” Moneypenny said softly. “That bastard has somehow resurrected himself time and time again. This time is no different, except that he’s actually got something to come back to.”

The knot tightened again. That Moneypenny insinuated Bond would fight even harder to stay alive because of _him_ was something that he wouldn’t let dare cross his mind. He didn’t believe her, but that didn’t mean he’d ignore her words either. She’s right. Bond _has_ come back from just about any injury Q can think of minus getting shot straight through the head. Even still, all he can do it wait.

Q gave her a weak nod, walking past Moneypenny through the door when he heard her say his name again. He turned back to look at her, still holding the door of his office open. Her face read something like guilt.

“You should know,” Moneypenny started as she kept her eyes on him “M’s told me that Bond still can’t contact any of us except for him. When Bond wakes up, you still won’t be able to speak with him.”

The grip of Q’s hand on the strap of his bag tightened ever so slightly. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this. That still didn’t stop the disappointment he felt at her words.

“I understand,” Q said with his voice steady. “Please do update me should anything change with his condition.”

“I will,” Moneypenny replied.

Q turned and walked through the exit doors of Q branch. As he walked the long hallway to the MI6 building exit, he wished there was any other single thought in his mind other than the constant mantra he’s unconsciously been repeating.

_Please don’t die._

*

Q took the tube back to his small flat. Moneypenny had suggested that he take one of the official MI6 cars to avoid the waiting, but with how badly his head was swimming, driving didn’t seem like the best idea.

He opened his front door to a dark living room, stepping in and immediately feeling something fluffy rub against his ankle. Q leaned over to flick the lights on, looking down at his orange tabby cat affectionately nuzzling his head against Q’s leg. He leaned down to scratch the little cats head in greeting. His cat oddly loved being in the dark. Q thought that right now, that was something they both shared.

“Hello Watson.” He scratched behind the cat’s ears for a little longer till Watson decided he was done wanting affection and walked off, quickly shaking his ears as he wandered towards Q’s bedroom.

Q pulled himself off the ground, walking over to his kitchen to grab a kettle and fill it with water. He set the kettle on the stove, pacing around the kitchen as the water slowly rose in heat, the whistle from the kettle getting increasingly louder. If this tea is the only thing Q has control over right now, he’ll take it.

Q stared at the steam rising from the kettle as it faded into the air, trying to think of as little as possible when he felt a vibration in his back pocket.

Confused, he reached back and pulled his phone out. He thought it may be Moneypenny calling to make sure he got home okay. Surely there couldn’t be any updates now. It’d only been about 20 minutes since Q had left MI6 and gotten home.

The phone showed an unknown number with an area code he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a London number, and Q tried his very hardest to stop that thought in his tracks because it’s not something he can afford right now.

Even so, he pressed accept and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Q asked, keeping any shakiness out of his voice.

There was some sort of static on the other end of the line. Q pulled his phone away from his ear momentarily, startled by the loud noise. “Hello? Who is this?” he asked again.

“You are an incredibly difficult man to get a hold of, you know that?”

The static had cut, but now it just felt like all that loud crushing noise was in Q’s head instead. You’ve got to be fucking joking.

Q pushed himself up from the counter he’d been leaning on, instinctively pressing the phone harder against his ear as if that would do anything. He felt his breath catch in his throat, the knot once again tightening, but somehow managed to thrust the words out anyway.

“It comes with the job,” Q thought he might try to stay composed, but he could so clearly hear his voice shake with the words, his breath coming out in audible gasps. If he concentrated hard enough, he thinks he can hear his own heart beating.

“I suppose you have a point,” Bond’s tone was clear, but still strained. “This would’ve been much easier if someone allowed me to bring my phone here, wouldn’t it?”

Well, good to know a bullet didn't damage his attitude at least. 

“First of all, why are you saying that as if it was my decision? Second of all, if you don’t give me an explanation as to how you were supposedly in surgery not thirty minutes ago and are now somehow contacting me from Russia, I presume without M’s knowledge, I will calibrate all your guns henceforth to squirt water instead of bullets.”

Q thankfully managed to get that all out in one breath. It occurred to him that he should’ve probably started by asking whether Bond was okay, but judging by the answering chuckle, the agent was just peachy.

“Well who am I to deny my dutiful Quartermaster anything,” Bond’s tone was noticeably lighter since he’d first spoke, Q’s exasperation a comforting and familiar experience. “I got out of surgery hours ago. Only just recently woke up. The call to M was a diversion tactic by the people I’m working with here to throw off the gang members almost certainly listening in to anything involving my state of consciousness.”

Q closed his eyes, deeply inhaling and breathing out as he once again slumped against the counter. The knot may not have fully untangled, but it did budge enough to loosen, strands pulling apart from each other bit by bit as Q’s brain finally caught up with the situation occurring in front of him. The lightness he felt came not only from hearing that Bond was alive, but also hearing Bond _at all._

After nearly two months, hearing Bond’s deep, rich drawl accompanied by that blasé attitude he normally hated was a relief beyond anything he could imagine. It warmed him from the inside nearly as much as the hot tea he was supposed to be drinking at this moment. It was a comfort he craved more than he thought he would, and he wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could milk this absolutely prohibited conversation they would no doubt be condemned for.

“You still with me Quartermaster?” Bond asked.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Did I break you or am I still passed out because you’ve never once been silent in any of our conversations.” Bond continued, his voice still slightly strained from what was so doubt pain, but Q would also bet that Bond had yet to drink any water.

“You were as good as dead not an hour ago. Give me a second to process this would you? And in the meantime, drink some water. My throat is hurting listening to you talk.” Q spoke with an annoyed tone, his nerves and worry exposing themselves in his attempt to be nonchalant. Thankfully for him, Bond knew him too well and Q heard him snort at his words.

“I’m so happy you’re glad to hear from me.”

Q heard the shifting of blankets, followed by the sound of Bond swallowing down the water, thank goodness.

“Where are you right now?” Q asked. It wouldn’t surprise him if Bond somehow ended up sneaking out of the hospital unauthorized and currently making his way to the nearest airport covered in bloodstained bandages.

“In a hospital bed somewhere in St. Petersburg,” Bond’s voice was less strained now, though still maintaining its deep, rich tone. “We relocated for a few days since the warehouse of stock is here. The shootout ended up happening with a few of our members and the gang.”

Q let out a sigh of relief to know that Bond wasn’t currently running down the streets of St. Petersburg at least.

“And the damage? How bad is it? Can you stand?” Q went on in a worried tone.

“Calm down Q, one question at a time. Yes, I can stand, but I highly doubt they’ll let me out of here anytime soon,” Bond paused but then said, “Apparently it was quite the close call.”

Q felt his body wince, his mind once again conjuring up the worst images it could create. He tried to push it away. None of that mattered. Bond was okay. At least, okay enough to continue being a prat whilst he talked to Q.

“The doctors said I’ll recover in due time, but presumably I’ll be off the field for a while,” Bond continued. Q knew then that Bond must really be in pain since he doesn’t sound nearly as put off about having to be off field work as he normally does.

The damage was vast and would require a hell of a long time to heal; but, it’s Bond. If anyone’s body has the ability to resurrect itself quicker than anyone thought reasonable, it was him.

“That’s good. This means you can join me at my desk to see just how much work I put into making those guns you so love to lose,” Q said in a mock angry tone.

“You’d allow me to sit next to you while you make your guns?” Bond asked with a tone that meant he already knew what the answer would be.

Q was quiet for a moment. “Yeah no, never mind, absolutely not. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

That got a small but genuine laugh out of Bond. Q guessed he probably couldn’t do much more or he’d risk bursting some stitches open. “Haven’t had your tea yet, have you?” Bond asked mockingly.

“I was about to until you recklessly called me from a hospital bed, you maniac,” Q said in an exasperated tone, but with a small smile that Q bet Bond could practically hear over the phone.

Speaking of tea, Q turned back to his kettle, grabbing a mug from the side shelf and placing his Earl Grey. “Tell me actually though. Are you feeling okay?” Q asked as he put Bond on speaker, setting his phone on the counter top. He heard Bond grunt softly, probably laying back against the sheets if the rustle of blankets was anything to go by.

“I’ve had worse. Though that may be I am on multiple drugs at the moment.”

Q poured the hot water into his mug over the tea bag, the steam rising and warming his face. “So you didn’t refuse medication prescribed by the good doctors?” Q asked. It was a reasonable question. This is the same man who sliced his skin open with a knife to pull out a tracking device.

“You have so little faith in me, Q” Bond replied. It certainly sounded like his was smiling. “Although that may have been because I was unconscious when said drugs were administered.”

Q rolled his eyes fondly over his cup tea. That made more sense. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you still speak to me.”

“This is the last time. Expect zero conversation upon your return. In fact, I’m transferring to a different location.”

“Your humor astounds me,” Bond said in a completely deadpan voice.

Q gave a small chuckle at that, sipping his tea as he stared at the opposite kitchen wall. It was silent for several moments, but it was a comfortable silence. Q could imagine Bond possibly staring out the window overlooking St. Petersburg as he held the phone to speak to Q. It was nice. Q was reminded of the rare times he awoke before Bond when Bond was sleeping in his flat. Q may be a workaholic, but he and the sun rarely see eye to eye, and he prefers to sleep in as much as his job possibly allows, which is usually not often. Generally, he awoke to Bond doing press ups on his bedroom floor, after which he promptly turned over in his bed and fell back asleep. But every once in a blue moon Bond would be in a heavier sleep than usual and Q was up just a touch earlier, laying next to him with a hand on Bond’s chest that he did not remember putting there but kept in place anyway.

The mornings were gray and quiet, soft rain hitting the windows and Q’s hand moving up and down with Bond’s breathing. Those mornings were something he hadn’t let himself think of much, but looking back on them now, it’s something he wished he experienced more often.

The silence was welcome, but eventually one of them had to break it. “I’m assuming the mission is cut short,” Q said, still sipping his tea. He heard Bond inhale deeply and let it out.

“For me, yes. I’m not sure what’s going on with the other members, but I am certain M is dealing with it right now, whatever it may be. I’ll be sent back to London as soon as the staff deems me fit to travel. Probably a few days.”

“Looking forward to all your desk work?” Q set down his now empty mug in the sink and grabbed the phone, turning off speaker and raising it to his ear.

“I’m ecstatic. Means I have more time to bother you.”

Q groaned as he paced around his living room. “Can’t wait.”

Bond was quiet for a moment. Q could hear him steadily breathing through the grainy line. “I’ve missed you, Q.”

Q stopped pacing, holding onto the phone just a little tighter. How far should he go in this moment? “I... well, I missed you too, Bond.”

There was another small chuckle. “I see I still haven’t convinced you to call me by my given name.”

In the wake of their intimacy, Bond had tried several times to make Q call him by his first name.

_We’ve slept together multiple times, Q. I hardly think you need to keep calling me Bond._

Q always refused. It felt too intimate. Bond was Bond. He was an agent that Q sometimes ate dinner with, or watched a film with, or slept with. Even in the midst of whatever relationship they had going on, thinking of calling Bond by his first name always left him feeling awkward and out of depth.

But now, with Bond’s voice in his ear, alive and breathing, maybe something ought to be different. Maybe.

“Come back in one piece and I’ll think about,” Q replied, continuing his pacing.

“You know I can’t refuse a direct order from my Quartermaster.”

Q snorted because that was a complete lie. He’d refused Q’s direct orders plenty of times and Q has no doubt he’ll continue doing so in the future.

“You should get some rest. I’m pretty sure it’s late over there right now. Though I am quite heavily drugged so it’s entirely possible I’m wrong.”

Q looked over at his alarm clock, noticing that it wasn’t exactly late but it also wasn’t not late, replying to Bond with an incredulous “You’re in a hospital bed healing from gunshot wounds and I’m the one who needs rest?”

The telltale sound of more sheets rustling meant that Bond was shifting again, probably onto his side. He was usually more comfortable that way. “If I promise to take a nap, will you stop worrying so much?”

Walking over to his bedroom and switching the light on, Q flopped down onto his bed, still in his work clothes. Watson jumped up from the floor, curling himself next to Q as settled to go back to sleep.

“Sure, if you actually do it.”

“Don’t worry, the meds are kicking in even harder,” Bond gave a loud yawn. “I’ll be out within a few minutes.”

The sun was just setting, gray clouds and soft rain hitting his window.

“Thank goodness,” Q smiled even though Bond couldn’t see him. “Sweet dreams, 007.”

It was supposed to sound mocking, but coming out of Q’s mouth, the words sounded completely sincere.

Bond gave one more yawn. “Sweet dreams, Quartermaster.”

The line cut off and Q dropped his phone next to him on the bed.

Bond would be home in a few days and Q is absolutely unprepared for it.

This is what he wanted. All of Q’s worst fears had ignited when he found out Bond was injured. Knowing he was as close to okay as possible filled him with an immense relief he didn’t expect. But now that Bond would be back home, would things change? Are they going back to what they normally did before Bond left? Does Bond even actually have feelings for Q?

These were too many questions to contemplate for Q’s tired brain. He felt Watson rub his little head against his arm, and Q reached over to scratch behind his ears.

“Stop judging me.”

*

Bond touched down in London approximately eight days after they spoke.

He awoke that morning at approximately six a.m. (because MI6 hated him) with one email from M and one from Moneypenny at the top of his desktop. M’s email read like a boss informing his employee that one of his agents has returned from their mission, with a reminder for Q to notify him when he received all of Bond’s no doubt broken equipment.

Moneypenny’s on the other hand was much more to the point.

_He’s back in London! Go talk to him! Now!_

Well, at least she didn’t beat around the bush.

Q went about his normal morning routine. Get up, feed Watson, shower, and head to the tube.

When he got into Q branch, it was fuller than usual with several agents returning, resulting in more equipment and mission follow ups. Q had several things on the agenda today, but he decided to step into his office for a bit to work on any specific assignment M might’ve given him. Almost certainly, it related to Bond and the Moscow mission, and the quicker he got everything done related to that mission, the better. Both for M and himself.

He’d been sat down for approximately two minutes before he realized that there wasn’t a cup of tea next to him. Well that was just unacceptable. He even skipped his initial cup this morning. The work can wait another five minutes.

Getting up from his desk, he wandered out of Q branch into the closest room with a kettle, which happened to be a small “break room” if one could call it that. Thankfully it was empty. He filled the kettle with water and set it down to heat up, walking over to the window while the water began to boil. He leaned against the sill, staring out over all the buildings and traffic. At least sometimes, it was nice to not be in a room of whirring machines. Not much. But sometimes.

Q’s eyes trailed over the city, zoning out for a bit until there was a small knock on the open door behind him.

“Sorry,” Q said still staring through the window “I was just about to make some tea, I’ll be done in a secon-”

“Why am I not even remotely surprised?”

Q quickly lifted off the window and spun around towards the door, his breath catching in his throat, an odd feeling in his stomach, and he could swear his heart sped up just a touch. If he was expecting to see anything today, it certainly wasn’t James Bond in a three-piece suit casually lounging against a door, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned. Q could see a hint of the white bandages covering Bond’s chest at his collar, shirt open just enough for the white to peek through. He looked…well he looked like someone who got badly injured. His stance wasn’t as straight as normal, leaning against the door for support and Q could tell by his face that the wounds were still causing some pain.

But the most infuriating part was that he still looked as good as he always does. The suit fit perfectly, his face was shaved, and his hair neatly done. It was slightly unnerving given the circumstances of just some days ago.

Q slowly walked forward, not getting too close, but close enough. He didn’t know where they stood. Even though he was certain they were still friends, Q wasn’t sure what the boundaries are. He wanted to touch Bond, hold him close enough to feel that he really is there with him and not mere figment of Q’s overworked brain, even though he’d known since this morning that Bond had returned. Nearly two months didn’t seem so long in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not that long for a mission; but, to Q it felt like a lifetime.

“What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be at work so soon,” Q stated worriedly.

Bond pushed himself off the door, instinctively grabbing onto his injured side as he stood up. Q filched and moved forward to try and support him, but Bond raised a hand to indicate that he didn’t want the help. “I’m alright,” he said, albeit slightly strained, “It’s healing pretty well. Just a little excess pain is all.”

Q sighed and stood up straight again. “Bond, you should be resting. At home,” Q emphasized, still with a very much concerned expression.

“And I will be. Don’t worry your pretty little head Q, I’m not here for work.”

An annoyed grumble left Q at his words and he stepped a bit closer on the chance that Bond collapses on the floor in front of him. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. “Well then why are you here? Surely the AAR could be done from home.”

Bond was standing upright now, arm lowered from his side. His expression was neutral, Q couldn’t make out exactly what he was feeling. Though to be fair, he never really could.

“Did you eat today?” Bond asked. He was quite closer now.

Q wanted to be annoyed at the sentiment of Bond, a man who’d recently been shot, was worrying about Q’s eating habits. He wanted to roll his eyes and make a sarcastic comment at Bond’s unnecessary worrying. But he couldn’t. Because Bond was too close and he was leaning in more than Q was used to, especially considering they were still at work and the door was open.

For a moment, Q remained silent. His eyes could only focus on the depth of Bond’s own with how close they were now. Eventually, his brain re caught up with what the question was in the first place.

“No, not yet,” Q replied.

At that, Bond gave a minute shake of his head, eyes still aimed solely on Q. “Apparently I can’t ever go on another mission again without the worry that you’ll starve to death.”

Bond leaned in closer, they’re lips just barely touching, but Q still felt the warmth of Bond’s mouth against his own. The knot tightened as far as it could possibly go.

“You are the most overdramatic person I’ve ever met,” It was said in a whisper. Speaking any louder seemed like it would shatter whatever glass case they seemed to be in.

“It comes with the job,” Bond whispered back before he leaned in completely, finally pressing his mouth to Q’s, the warmth rising a thousand degrees higher as they connected after so many weeks apart. Q gave a small whimper, pushing back wholeheartedly against the press of Bond’s lips. His arms lifted to wrap themselves around Bond’s neck as he felt those large hands find a place on his waist, pulling Q in even closer somehow.

This wasn’t their first kiss. Far from it. Their first kiss was in the midst of Bond laying on top of Q as he entered him for the first time. That should overshadow their kiss inside the small break room of the MI6 building; and yet, this felt miles above anything they’d ever done before. Q’s entire body felt like it could float at any second. He was sure Bond wasn’t too far off.

The knot loosened, untangling from the mangled mess it started out as, the ropes pulling away from each other, disintegrating in Q’s chest.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, too caught up in the feel of Bond’s tongue in his mouth. It wasn’t until Q noticed Bond’s hands roaming around to his backside that he pulled back, his arms still wrapped around the older mans neck. They make have stopped kissing, but both still refused to pull completely away from each other, their lips still hovering close. Q’s breaths were coming out much faster than usual.

“Come to dinner with me,” Bond mumbled against Q’s mouth.

Q gave a soft chuckle, almost loud in the quiet of the room. He wasn’t ready to break this glass case yet. “Like a date?” he asked playfully.

“Yes. Exactly like a date.”

“Fancy restaurant down in St. James?” Q asks with a tone that says he is well out of his depth for that.

The corner of Bond’s mouth upturns slightly. “I was thinking more like Chinatown. I could go for some Sichuan Pork.”

The small smile Q had on grew even wider at that, and he felt himself shaking his head in amusement.

“You never fail to surprise me, Mr. Bond.”

Q felt one of Bond’s hands leave his waist, coming up to rest on the side of Q’s neck while his thumb softly rubbed his cheek. It felt nicer than Q was willing to admit.

“Q,” Bond said.

“Yes?”

“Call me James.”

It must’ve been the hundredth time he was told that exact statement. At this moment, he can’t even really remember his reasoning on why he ever refused.

“Is that a yes?” Bond asked, his thumb still resting on Q’s cheek.

“I’d love to. James.”

**Author's Note:**

> Random Notes: 
> 
> The title is named after the painting Bond and Q are looking at in the beginning of the story. It is The Parting of Hero and Leander by J.M.W Turner, which depicts Hero (a priestess of Aphrodite) seeing her lover Leander drown in the sea as he was swimming to be with her at her tower. It's also located at the National Gallery. 
> 
> Q's little kitty cat was named after Watson, a computer system developed in IBM's DeepQA project. 
> 
> Lastly, the St. James district Q mentions at the end is an exclusive area in Westminster, London near Buckingham Palace that includes many fine-dining restaurant options.


End file.
